It's A Small World, After All
by cap and bottle
Summary: It's amazing how people you haven't seen in a long time seem to show up when and where you least expect it. Includes small-town diners, corrupt men with medical degrees, and Scout in a tie. Sniper/OC
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**So, here we are. My chapter of my first piece of work for this site. My first piece of fiction ever, and also my first for TF2. Needless to say, this is a wee bit terrifying. Please, please, please reveiw. It's the only way I can correct mistakes.

**As much as I wish I did, I don't own TF2. Come to think of it, I don't own John, Paul, Ringo, or George, either. **

* * *

**Prologue:  
**

The air was cool and smelled like bacon and fresh coffee at this time of day. From the windows, he could see the small town of Little Badwater slowly rise to meet the pinkish-gray of morning. The diner was already starting to get crowded again, filling up with men on their way to the offices and a handful of them on their way home from work. At the counter he spotted a pair of state troopers chatting with the short-order cook. This was a nice little place, perfectly situated and wonderfully open all night long. It was a good place to settle in and while away a few hours of night, nurse a cup of coffee or six, and re-read, for the thousandth time, the letter he was supposed to be writing to his mum. Sniper glanced guiltily at the paper, where it peeked out from under his hat. It shouldn't be this hard, he supposed, leaning forward and resting his chin in one hand. Of course, that was supposing that he had a job that didn't involve shooting people in the head everyday. Or dying everyday himself - sometimes more than once-and waking up with a mild headache and queasiness fifteen minutes later. No, it wouldn't do to tell them more than what they already knew, that their son was picking off poachers and those that would commit thievery against the Reliable Excavation and Demolition Company. That was enough to dissatisfy them already.

"More coffee?" The request startled him out of his reverie, and he blinked up at the familiar woman standing by his table, watching as she blew a curl out of her eyes. Sniper smiled at her and nodded, pushing his cup over to the edge of the table. "Thanks, Miss." Since her first day, nearly a month and a half ago, Sniper had always wound up with her as his waitress. She was, however, much more at home than that first morning.

_"Ah, crap, right in ya eggs, too," the girl grumbled, for a moment just staring at the plate of scrambled eggs and crispy bacon that had been liberally doused in coffee. "Sorry. Should'a been watchin' myself," she sighed, setting down the coffee pot to sop up a small puddle of coffee that had landed on the table between Sniper's cup and ruined breakfast. He was too startled to do anything but stare at her from atop his glasses as she swore under her breath and hurried to get the mess up. Her hands were pale and shook a little when she scooped up the plate in one and the coffee pot in the other. "Nah, s'alright, swe-" he trailed off just as soon as he'd started, because she was already turning on her heel and heading for the kitchen._

_"Huh," he sighed, glancing at his dining companion with a bemused half-smile._

_On the other side of the booth, Engineer grinned at him teasingly and ran a blocky hand over his hair. "Must be she's got all nervous from the sight of such a handsome fella."_

_Sniper snorted and reached out to slap the other man with a menu. "Hush. Yer married."_

_The Texan blinked innocently at him. "Me! I was talkin' 'bout you." The remark earned him another harmless slap. "Ha. Very funny, mate."_

_A few minutes later, their waitress re-appeared with a fresh plate. "Sorry 'bout that, fellahs," she sighed, setting the plate in front of Sniper carefully. "Gotta get used ta doin' this again."_

_He glanced up at her with a smile, watching her fidget a little. She had a familiar but somehow implacable accent, and was so short it wouldn't have been hard to call her tiny, with pale, freckled skin and dark red hair. Cute, if you were into that petite-and-curvy type._

_"S'alroight, missy," he smiled, lifting the coffee cup to his lips. She twitched a little when the bell above the door rang, and Engineer arched a brow, but seemed content to contribute nothing more to the conversation unfolding before him. Finally, Sniper cleared his throat and asked, "First day jitters?"_

_The girl nodded and shrugged one shoulder tiredly, ducking her head to adjust the pen clipped to her apron. "Yeah…ya could say that…"_

_Before either of them could say anything more, a shout of "ORDER UP!" rang out, and the waitress straightened up, flipping one hand over her shoulder. "I gotta go get that. Youse fellahs lemme know if ya need somethin' yeah?" she asked, nodding once before scurrying away._

_For a moment, both men watched her, before resuming their breakfast. Sniper added a little salt to his eggs and idly noticed that the girl had put extra bacon on his plate._

_Engineer was thoughtfully eating his toast, and finally said quietly, "Ya know, I think that girl was blushin'."_

_"An' Oi think yer cracked in th' head, mate," Sniper growled, glaring half-heartedly at him. He refused to acknowledge the way the tips of his ears felt just slightly warm. The sheila was probably half his age. Yes she was cute, but the only reason he might have been blushing, or noticing her like_

that_ was simply because it had been a long time since any sheila had smiled at him, he told himself._

_Engineer had left it at that until they were driving back to the base. In the pause between one conversation and the next, he had said quietly, "Pretty brown eyes, though, huh?" And smirked when almost automatically, Sniper had said, "Nah, her eyes were green, mate."_

_He nearly rolled the van trying to properly slap the damn Texan for getting him like that._

"Anytime, sweets," she replied as she topped off the heavy porcelain cup. Somewhere in the back, a bell tinged and someone hollered "ORDER UP!"

"Bettah go get that," she sighed, flashing a crooked and warm smile his way before spinning off towards the kitchen. Sniper smiled at her as she left, picking up his coffee and sipping it thoughtfully. She looked tired today, her freckles standing out more on her pale skin and faint bags under her eyes. He wanted to ask her to sit and take a load off, but didn't. He knew better. She was half his age at least and he swore one time he saw a wedding band on her finger. Ah well. No use in pining, he chided himself, sipping his coffee and reluctantly picking up his letters again. He had to write his mum something, dammit.

It was almost an hour later, spent writing about the various off-duty goings-on that he was snagged again, staring out the window and listening to the soft chatter and almost-quiet at the end of the rush. The waitresses were laughing quietly, the troopers had gone home to their wives, and somewhere a radio had been turned on. He grimaced a little, and gulped down the rest of his coffee, and decided to end his letter on a pleasant note. After it was signed- _'Much Love, Lawrence'_- sealed in a heavy-duty envelope, and addressed, he glanced around for his waitress, and spotted her reflection in the plate-glass window.

She was behind him, wiping down after a messy group of young men when a few chords struck out on the radio and another waitress called out teasingly, "Oooh, Betsy! It's yer song, honey!" It took a moment for Sniper to recognize the song as one of the Fab Four's, and grimaced a little. He had never seen how a group of pretty boys could make it so big. They were all right, he supposed. If you were a woman.

But his waitress-her name is Betsy, he corrected himself- laughed at the other, flipping the towel up on her shoulder and calling back to her, "An' it makes me so happy ta hear, Deanne!"

With that, she returned to the clean up, piling dishes and cups and carefully balancing them all, half singing along with the Lads from Liverpool as she toted dirty dishes to the kitchen. "I'm so happy when you dance with me..."

He caught her eye when she pushed out of the kitchen again, and she automatically picked up the coffee pot on the way over. "Nothah cup?" she asked, flicking a slightly fuzzy curl from her eyes.

"Nah, just th' check, darlin'," he replied. "Oi best be heddin' out."

She nodded. "Yea, I bet they keep ya busy up thea, right?"

He twitched, tilting his head. "Oh? What makes ya say that?" He was always curious to see what people thought he did for a living. Most people in town had one theory or another about 'those kooks at the old facility', but they were under strict contract not to let anyone know the truth.

She fidgeted a little under his gaze, and shrugged. "Well, you work up at that testin' facility, right? Teufort?" When he didn't say anything to negate this, she pushed on, that one shoulder shrugging again. From under the table, he could hear her shoes squeak as she shifted her weight. "Well, Mann Comp'ny's always got some new thing or anothah, sose they must keep ya busy testin' all that crap out." She glanced at him, tilting her head and half-smiling in a way that was making him fight the urge to fidget a little himself. "Right?"

Huh. She really did not have any idea just how close to the truth she was. Not that she was exactly hitting the nail on the head, but they did ship untested items out for them to play with. What better test than an real fight, after all?

He nodded, smiling in return. "Absolutely, missy."

The answer got a proud little grin from her, and she dug through one apron pocket and pulled out his bill, slapped it face-down on the table, and assured him that he could take his time paying, before she got flagged from another table for coffee.

He didn't take his time in paying, but did so as soon as she left to attend to her other tables. He knew he could linger as long as he wanted, but didn't want to distract her, or give into temptation himself and invite her to sit and chat, never mind that he knew better than to get his hopes up. So he tucked a five-dollar bill under his half-full ashtray, picked up his hat, and ambled out to greet the morning. He wanted to make a stop at the post office before heading back to the base.

He was halfway out of the parking lot when he heard a shout. "Hey! Hey Mista Lawrence Mundy!"

Sniper twitched around, frowning and wondering who in the hell in this town actually knew his name, only to be faced with Betsy the waitress. She was jogging to catch up to him, and by the time she did her hair was hanging stubbornly in her face and she was panting a bit.

The half-smile she wore when she stood up and pushed her hair from her face fell slightly. He wasn't exactly the most exuberant of regulars, no, but was pleasant and polite and even when the mood struck him a little chatty, which was nice because he had a very nice accent and really quite a nice smile. But now he looked positively annoyed that she used-or even knew- his name, and that gave his normally scruffy and serious countenance a darker, almost dour cast. And good Lord, he was tall. Granted, she knew she was short, but he loomed over her in a way that reminded her of a praying mantis. "Ah...sorry. Ya left this on th' table. I know it was really nosy of me, but I didn't intend ta go snoopin'. It was right there an' all. An' then I had ta get yer attention somehow, right?"

Almost timidly, she offered him up the envelope he'd left, and he immediately regretted glaring in her direction before realizing it was her. "Ah...no, it's no worry, darlin," he told her, carefully taking it from her and tucking it safely inside his vest. "An' thanks fer thinkin' ta bring it ta me in th' first place." She seemed to relax a little when he did, and that made him feel a little less awkward. Not much, but a little. Needing something to do, he tugged out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a match. She declined his offer of one with a small smile, and he lit up, happy for at least some small distraction. He really wasn't a people person, and was painfully aware of it now. "An' it's only fair, Oi guess," he mused, thoughtfully exhaling the smoke upward, though he didn't need to. He stood a good foot and a half over her as it was.

"Hmmmm?" she asked, looking up at him.

"That ya know my name now," he told her, patting the place where his letter rested. A small grin appeared on his face as he added, "Miss Betsy."

"Oh..." she made a noise that was equal parts groan and laugh, and rubbed a palm over her face. "That ain't my name, really," the girl laughed. "That's what Deanne calls me because she refuses to use my given name or anythin' close to it. Says it's an' old woman's name."

There was a pause as Sniper digested this, flustered, and then annoyed at himself for being flustered in the first place when the other waitress had clearly called her Betsy and she responded… and…and slowly he realized that he was just staring at her, not saying a damn word and suddenly it dawned upon him that the air around them was incredibly awkward. "Ah…" he rubbed the back of his neck and glanced down at his scuffed, dusty boots for a moment. "Ah…sorry 'bout that, then…"

A truck with a bad muffler blew past them, and she waved his apology away easily. "S'fine, really. Deanne's gone an' gotten nearly everyone callin' me that; I'm jus' glad I could get ta ya before 'Betsy' became permanent for ya, too."

Her hand came out. "I'm Agnes, by the way. Loupushanski. "Her grin grew into a giggle when he bowed over her hand instead of just shaking it, and he felt a little rush of pride. Ha. He got the waitress to laugh. "Nioce to meet ya then, Miss Lou—lop—Loupushanski…" Now if only he could say her name without butchering it. Wincing a little, he asked, "Did I say it roight?"

"Yea, but callin' me Aggie's jus' fine. Th' last name's a bit of a mouthful," she grinned.

Her tiny, little hand still rested in his big, rough one, though she hadn't noticed and pulled away, and he didn't call attention to it, either. Sniper had just opened his mouth to ask, perhaps if she didn't mind and had the time to spare, if she might be interested in walking down to the post office with him- his notions of knowing better had temporarily gone forgotten- when a shout from back across the parking lot pulled her attention away. A stout man in a garishly yellow tie leaned out the door. "Ah, crap," she sighed. "That's my manager. I bettah go, before he decides ta lecture me 'bout my responsibilities again, th' idiot."

Agnes grinned at him one last time and he let her hand slip before she had to tug it away. They both looked at each other, not knowing what to really say for a moment. Finally he broke the quiet by nodding towards the diner. "Best git back, 'fore that wanka gits too annoyed."

She snorted, but agreed. "Yea, alright." She turned and stepped towards the building, but paused and glanced back and grinned. "I'll be seeing ya, Mista Mundy."

"Lawrence," he corrected, briefly marveling on just how odd it was to use his given name. But asking her to call him 'Sniper' just wouldn't do. "If I git ta call ya Aggie, s'only fair if ya call me Lawrence."

"Right then," she nodded, smile growing a little. "I'll be seein' ya, Lawrence." One last little wave was given in his direction, and then she turned and hurried back to her post.

Sniper waited until she was through the door before turning and going on his way, humming under his breath without realizing it, a small spring in his step. Perhaps he didn't really know better after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: WOO! Chapter Two! Things are coming right along and (hopefully) the plot is coming together, slowly but surely. Thanks for all those loving souls who came by, and an especially huge thanks to the super talented ChaosandMayhem for reviewing. **

**Disclamer: You all know the drill. I don't own these guys.  
**

**Chapter one**

"There is something wrong with that kid," Soldier rumbled, watching from under his helmet as Scout somewhat dragged himself across the dirt pit that served as the courtyard for the RED facilities.

"Hmmmm?" Beside him, an already slightly inebriated Demoman sat on an abandoned crate, a six-pack of beers between them. "Wossat, boyo?"

Soldier snorted and pushed his helmet back on his head. "Well there is. Lookit him. He's sulking. More than usual, anyway." He gestured with his cigar to the skinny, short figure practically dragging itself across to the main building.

The dark-skinned man watched, but simply snorted at his drinking company and leaned back against the supply shed, tipping the remainder of his beer into his mouth in one swallow. "So? Jus' means 'e's been pesterin' somewone an' they've given 'im th' boot. Y'ken how he gits on cease-fires. As fidgety as a cod-fish, tha'un."

Sol shook his head and puffed on his cigar. "It's something else. I can feel it in my shovel."

Demo snorted again, and replaced his empty bottle with a full one. "Sure."

"It is!" the blocky veteran snapped, the straps on his helmet twitching. "He's been sneaking around, have you noticed? Barely here at night anymore."

The Scot, still disbelieving anything was wrong with Scout save for him being loud and generally grating on the nerves, popped the cap from his beer and laughed. "Ye soun' like a worried Auntie, Sol."

Under his helmet, Soldier's eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched suspiciously as Scout paused by the door and kicked it, loudly, before disappearing inside. Absently, he reached out and took the beer Demoman had just opened for himself. Completely oblivious to the other man's angry stare, he took a pull. "I smell treason. Or worse, a Spy!" A growl rumbled deep in his chest and Demo braced himself for a night's worth of ranting about non-existent spies and funny-acting Bostonians. He cuffed the Soldier's head, causing his helmet to slide all the way down to his nose. "Ah, shaddup, ya rabid ol' watchdog. Yon boyo's no spy, ye ken? Yer jus' as fidgety as him!"

The helmet was flicked back up with an automatic gesture. "If that's the case, tell me when the last time you heard him whine about being bored was."

He opened his mouth to reply, his grin wide. But then it faded. Solider, not always known for his observation skills, had identified a very strange thing indeed. Scout, not complaining about having nothing to do on a Saturday afternoon. That was downright strange. Maybe there _was_ something wrong with him.  
...

They had been drunk. Impressively, spectacularly drunk. The kind of drunk that only happens not when you sit down to get good and plastered, but the other kind. The kind that happens when long, rambling talks are being had, and no one actually pays attention to just how much alcohol they've been consuming. It was the kind of drinking that led to thoughts being formed, questions posed, and plans made.

Plans and questions that were understandably not on Soldier's mind when he woke to the solid, simple agony of a hangover. His head pounded with mortar fire, his stomach rolled, and his back was screaming from having fallen asleep sitting up. With a groan, he made to clutch at his head, and somehow, he lost his balance. He slid to the side, ending up in a fetal position on the concrete floor...concrete. Not the softish, acrid dust that covered everything left outside more than an hour. Braving the painful light of day, he inched one eye open, and blearily identified the brown and grey...thing in front of him as the plywood and cinder-block television stand. Engineer was always meaning to fix the original, but that particular project got left by the wayside. Huh.

Slowly, painfully, and rather like his father's curmudgeonly old farm truck, Soldier's brain got to working again. The gears inside his head shrieked, caught briefly, and then meshed and started grinding their way along to thought. If there was the television stand, then there would be a television on it. And if there was a television, then they were in the rec room. Somehow or another, they had ended up in there. He couldn't quite remember what transpired after the Scot had made that third six-pack appear, They probably hadn't walked here themselves.

Content to lie on the cold floor and beg his hangover away, Soldier was not expecting a loud groan from the area vaguely behind him. The noise sounded like nails dragging along a mile-long chalk board to his pounding head. Privately, he wondered if he was getting too old for this type of thing. Outwardly, he did anything he could to stop the awful racket, which included pressing his hands solidly to his ears and kicking out with his left leg. There was a change in pitch from the groan, from agonized to agonized and pissed off, and he heard Demoman swearing in a nearly continuous grumble.

There was some shuffling and groaning, and then it was blissfully, wonderfully quiet again. He could hear Demo's breathing even out, and realized that he was sleeping. He too was starting to get a little tired, the headache less, and happily let himself doze off on the rec room floor.

It lasted all of perhaps ten minutes before the door burst open like the crack of doom, swinging on it's rusted hinges. Footsteps. Then one supple-soled sneaker came out and prodded Soldier on his elbow. Soldier decided to ignore it, and after a moment there came another, harder, prod. The older man growled and tucked himself tighter to defend his slumber. There was a pause, and then someone started to laugh. It was a high-pitched, snort-punctuated cackle that could only come from one person.

This time, when the prod came it was much harder and accompanied by the question, "Hey. Hahaha. Hey, youse alive down thea, Solly?"

Soldier growled again, "Goddamnit Scout!" His hand shot out, but the boy danced nimbly out of reach, still laughing. "Shut up, Private! Yer killin' me!" The agony was slightly les agonizing this time, and he ventured to open one eye and glare at the subject of last night's heavy debate.

"Shouddn'a drank so much, old man," came the reply, and once more, the toe of a shoe came out and poked lightly at his fingers. He was quicker, but still Scout hopped back, laughing.

By that time Demoman had woken again, to the sound of his drinking buddy's torment. Blindly, he felt for his flask, which was nowhere in reach. "Ach! Away w'ye, beastie," he groused, half sitting up. The sharp-faced young man was half-squatting, just out of arms reach with the flask dangling from his fingers. "Lookin' fa this, pal?"

Demo made to lunge, but Scout stood, smirked, and set the flask on the card table. "There ya go. Nice an' safe up thea, huh?"

He grinned down at the pair of them, hands on his hips, and Demo couldn't place what it was, but Scout looked different. Off, somehow. Well, not that it mattered right then. That wee little beast had taken his flask and didn't seem inclined to give it back. In fact, he was poking at the scree of papers that always ended up on the table, not really paying much attention to the two hung over men on the floor, but muttering to himself. As Demoman glared at him, willing him to return the silver bottle of salvation, the kid found what he was looking for, folded it up, and tucked it in his back pocket.

He turned to go, and the Scot glared harder and cast about for something to throw, if need be. "Give tha' back," he demanded.

Scout grinned. "Ah…no. Sorry, man." His smile abruptly died when Soldier's helmet sliced past him, and he jumped to avoid it. "Shit! Jeeez-us, ya an angry drunk!" It was his turn to glare at the smirking Cyclops. Scowling now, Scout swatted the flask off the table. "Fine. Whatever. I got places ta be, anyway. …Friggin' damn hung over bastahds in the damn rec room…"

His muttering and the loud stomping of his feet disappeared down the corridor, and a slip of paper fluttered down through the air. Demo chuckled to himself and took a healthy pull of the Scumby's inside, and felt immediately better. "Liddle brat," he mumbled, moving to sit up properly. He froze, then, his muddled brain finally registering why Scout had looked so odd. The little demon had been wearing proper slacks and an honest-to-God tie. He groaned, wondering what in the hell was going on with that kid.

...

Nearly an hour later Soldier had woken up again, and noticed exactly what Demo – by this time freshly showered and slumped over a cup of coffee in the mess hall—had. That when the brat had tormented them earlier he had worn proper clothes, and not his usual half-assed baseball uniform type thing. It made the man stagger upright grab his helmet from where it had been behind the couch, and rush out to find his co-conspirator. And coffee. And perhaps some aspirin. But mostly Demoman.

Enough was known about the Scottish man for Soldier to check the mess first, and upon clapping eyes on him, started to flail inarticulately about the morning. "Scout… maggot… tie-wea—"

"Aye…I ken, laddie," Demoman interrupted him, cutting him off neatly and watching him slump in frustration. He pushed out a chair with his foot, and Soldier settled into it. "That kid is up to somethin'," he grumbled. "Probably a damn spy."

Something occurred to Demoman as he stared into the dregs of his coffee cup. Something that made him feel stupid for not thinking about before. It would explain the odd behavior, the way he was disappearing every night, hell it would even explain the damn tie. And, he added mentally, the reason the kid had gone to Sunday service, as the paper he'd dropped on his way out that morning proved. He smirked, then chuckled, then laughed gruffly.

"Scout's no spy, laddie. He's got a girl."

**A/N: TAADAA! Hope you enjoyed! Don't forget to review on your way out!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Alright, then! Next Chapter. This one was particularly hard to write (I need practice writing arguments), and so I would looooove any and all reviews, advice, and constructive criticism. Finding the crappy bits in the story is the first step to fixing them, after all! **

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own those hooligans and ruffians.**

**Chapter Two**

Scout had always been blessed with a certain single-mindedness since his birth. He had always been able to drown everything out, barrel through, and keep his eyes on the prize. No amount of childhood restraints, playground bullies, or men with large, painful weapons could stop him from getting at what he wanted. It was, in fact, the exact reason he was being paid a salary that had made him choke on his own spit when he first heard the number.

Of course, most blessings were also curses, and as far as it went, single-mindedness was certainly one of the bigger ones. Because now that Scout had what he wanted, he honestly didn't know what to do with it. He had found her. He had made sure it was her. And instead of just walking up to her and asking why the hell she hadn't contacted him as soon as she had crossed the line into Dustbowl County, he hadn't. Instead, he'd been half following her around for nearly two weeks. Stewing. Squirming. Letting things get to him. There was only a handful of crap that could really, really, take root under his skin, and 'suddenly seeing a girl who had been like family from the time he was four show up and then not tell him' was right under 'the idea mom dating, ever', and just above 'the sound of tinfoil getting crunched up'. Ugh.

He knew he had sent her his address. And even if he hadn't, Scout was positive that his Mom would have told her mother where he was. It was just a given that the two women would have shared that information, and it would have gotten back to her. He just couldn't fathom why she wouldn't have told him she was here. It twisted inside him a little to think she was just hiding from him in his own backyard, and now for the first time since he'd shoved her first boyfriend down the stairs when they were twelve, he was hesitant to approach her.

Huffing a sigh, Scout pulled his bike- the first thing he'd bought when he got his first RED check- into the church parking lot. He parked it in the shaded spot by the western side, brushed off all the road dust, and started around to the entrance.

Our Lady of The Desert rose out of the dust and sand like a small pink cake, bell ringing to call the county to service. Scout wasn't much for churches, but he had to admit the Lady was beautiful. He only admired the little church for a few seconds; Mass was going to start soon and he didn't want to be last in. At the top of the short steps, he took his hat off, straightened the damned tie around his neck, and silently hoped that the place didn't collapse around him when he entered.

Scout hadn't gone to church for years. The last time he'd been in one had been for a wedding, one that hadn't even happened. Though undeniably Catholic, his mom hadn't dragged her brood into service every Sunday. No, for the MacBride children, Mass was something that only happened on Christmas. It meant sitting still, being quiet, and shaking hands with Old Father Murphy at the end of the service. The smell of hot wax and incense that made his nose prickle. And now, he felt like an interloper. This didn't belong to him, not really.

Awkwardly, he dipped his fingers in the font and crossed himself. The majority of the people crowding the pews were tiny old women in prim hats and stiff-shouldered old men. Here and there were a few young families, and in one corner Scout saw a pair of sweethearts standing close to each other and whispering. He smirked with the boy leaned in for a kiss and the girl pulled back and scowled. Heh.

He picked a spot at the back of the sanctuary, and, as the ushers closed the heavy doors to the outside, he picked her out of the crowd. She was a tiny figure in a lively green dress, her hair tucked under a small straw hat. She was near the front and to the left; he could just see the curve of her face.

Mass was long and tedious; Scout was glad he had sat at the back, where no one could give him dirty looks for flipping disinterestedly through the hymn book and tug at his stolen tie. He didn't stand when the rest of the congregation did, he didn't repeat after the Father like the others did. He hadn't come to Mass for Mass, after all. He had come to see her, and to wonder about what the hell he was going to do with her.

While riding the short route to Our Lady of The Desert, he had decided that he would finally make it known that he knew she was here. Right here in the gravel parking lot, while surrounded by all those blue-hairs in their Sunday best. But now as the service ended, he felt himself getting nervous. He, Scout, the guy that never broke a sweat, that never paused to have first thoughts, let alone second ones, was having second thoughts. It was pathetic. Laughable. Embarrassing. But just before Mass officially ended, he slipped out and stalked to his bike and then started to pace angrily. He had to do this. Needed to do this. It wouldn't be hard to just go up to her and poke her in the arm. He had done it when they were four, after all.

Right. He was gonna do it. He was really, really, really serious this time. Scout squared his shoulders, straightened his tie, and waited just at the edge of the church's shadow for her to come down the three little steps. He took two steps into the sunshine, and then growled and turned back, stalking back into the shade and kicking at the dirt in frustration. It wasn't the right day. He had work tomorrow. She probably had work sooner than he did. He would wait. Maybe send a letter instead. Or get her phone number, if she had a phone yet. He just...he couldn't bring himself to face her yet, if only because she might tell him to go the hell away. He might not have been afraid of dying every day, but facing a tiny little girl from home was oddly terrifying, especially because he had no idea what he might have done to deserve her being here and refusing to tell him.

Swearing under his breath at himself for being a coward, for her for simply being here, and for just about everything else under the hot, bleaching sun, Scout mounted the bike, threw the kickstand up, and pedaled resolutely back to the base.

By the time he got there, he was still frustrated, and it had slowly swelled into an uncomfortable anger. He wanted to scream. Pick a fight. Break something. So when he stomped into the main building and up the steps to his room, he was in no mood to have Soldier fall in step with him and clap him soundly on the back.

"I just wanted to congratulate you, Private," the older man started, oblivious to the glare Scout had settled on him. He shrugged out from under his hand and ground out, "What for, ol' man?"

"Why, on your acquisition of a woman, son," Soldier declared heartily, slinging his arm back around the younger man's tense shoulders. Scout had been mere feet from his room. Seconds away. But Soldier's booming voice had stopped him in his tracks, so abruptly the veteran had kept going and nearly tripped.

Scout could feel the back of his neck getting hot and he glared at his teammate. "What."

Soldier seemed to only then cotton on to Scout's displeasure, and though his smile faded a bit, he pressed forward anyway. "Your sweetheart, of course. The one you've been sneaking out to see every night for almost two weeks!" He scratched his stubbly chin and peered out at the boy from under his helmet. He still hadn't realized that Scout was in the mood to pick a fight already, and he had just stumbled upon the one subject guaranteed to get him angrier.

"I. Don't. Have. A. Sweetheaht," the Bostonian ground out, his accent thickening just a little.

"Yes, you do," came Soldier's clipped reply. "Otherwise you would not be sneaking off-base every night. I hope she's a keeper, son. And do not forget to be careful. Don't want to lose you to Fatherhood at such an early age. Maybe Medic would help you with that subject."

By this time, Scout had given up actual words for a low growl. Not only did the team know -he didn't doubt it had gotten around to everyone if Solly had found out about it- but he thought he was sleeping with her. He didn't know which was more embarrassing, but he did know that getting embarrassed just made him mad. And Solider wasn't privy to the fact that Scout's temper was quickly reaching the boiling point.

With a snarl, the boy snapped. Scout pushed Soldier a pace back and cried, "Shut ya mouth! Ya don' know what th' hell ya talkin' 'bout!" His face was red and he looked ready to tear something apart.

Solider stumbled into the wall, startled by both the volume and the vehemence in the boy's voice. His own temper flared quickly, feeding off his younger teammate's. Stepping back towards him, his voice rose to the pitch only used during lectures and arguments. It rang off the concrete walls and down the hallways, carrying perfectly to nearly the entire main building."YES I DO, PRIVATE! YOU HAVE A GIRLFRIEND! I HAVE SOLID PROOF OF HER EXISTENCE AND TO DENY IT WILL GET YOUR SORRY ASS COURT MARSHALED!"

Both men were breathing heavy and glaring at each other as the older man's threat hung echoing in the air. "Like hell ya got proof, jackass," Scout snarled. He didn't realize that they had a small audience now, Engineer hanging out his door, goggles pulled around his neck and watching the two warily.

"I do," the blocky man countered. "I have a full name and address for one-" Soldier didn't get any further, because Scout had let out a strangled yell and punched him square in the jaw. "I can' believe ya! Ya wen' in my goddamned room!?" Soldier fell back square on his butt from the impact, and his helmet went clattering down the corridor. He scrambled back up, though, and made to punch the boy back. Scout ducked, and it only grazed his shoulder. It didn't put the fight out of the boy, though, and he screeched and wound up his arm to swing at the older man again.

He didn't get a chance though, because Engie and scrambled out and grabbed the skinny kid by his waist, nearly dragging him of his feet and shoved him into the wall. "MY GODDAMNED ROOM," he hollered, trying to climb Engie in an attempt to get to Soldier, who seemed to be just as eager to get back to the fray himself. He had been waylaid by Pyro, who had heard the commotion as well, and was half-dragging the man out of reach.

When it became apparent to the Texan that Scout wasn't going to calm down with out some help, he reared back and landed an open-handed slap to his right cheek. "Now why don' we all jus' shut right the hell up for a sec?"

Scout glared at him, his face getting a livid red, but it did in fact seem to hush the boy. He kept his hand firmly on his chest, though, just in case he tried to get away again. Behind him, he could hear Pyro's muffled voice and Soldier snarling over top of it to let him at the little whelp so he could show him who was boss around here.

"Okay," Engineer growled, "Explain, one of you."

Immediately Scout burst into a fit of accusation in a high-pitched and thickly accented voice, so Engineer could only here a few words. "Bastahd...my DAMNED ROOM...Don' got one...friggin' snoop...lemme at 'im..." were all he caught, while Soldier exploded into a similar but somehow louder scree of words. "TRAITOR...LITTLE WHELP...CONFIRMATION...SPY MATERIAL..."

"SHUT UP!" Engineer let the command echo for a second, relishing the fact that both men had, in fact, been stunned quiet. Then he poked Scout in the chest. "You. Explain. Slowly, and in a pitch I can act'lly hear, kiddo."

Scout heaved a huge breath and glared daggers at the Texan. "Tat bahstid righ' thea tinks I've gotta gal an' went snoopin in my room ta prove it!"

Soldier growled at this and flailed his arms wildly. "I DID AND I FOUND IT AND THAT'S WHY HE'S SO PISSED OFF!"

"I Don' gotta wone!" Scout screamed, lunging at the man even though Engineer's solid hand pinned him to the wall.

"THEN WHY DID I FIND A NAME AND ADDRESS ON YOUR DRESSER?"

"SHE'S NOT MY GAL! SHE DON' EVEN KNOW I BIN FOLLOWIN' 'ER!"

There was a perfect, stunned quiet that came after that statement, and even Soldier, who was in the process of retorting, couldn't find anything to say to that.

Pyro dropped his hands and turned to look at the boy, still leaning sullenly against the wall even though Engineer had let him go, the eye sockets on his mask shining quizzically. "Mrrph?"

Finally, Sol sighed and tucked his hands in his pockets. "Son," he said, "I never thought I'd have to say this, but I think it's time we had a talk about how to court a lady."

Scout, red from anger and embarrassment, simply made a strangled noise. He shoved off the wall, ducked around Engineer, and stormed back out of the base, leaving the three of them behind to stare at each other, eyebrows raised. Finally, Engineer cleared his throat. "Well...uh...d'you think Medic needs to know about this?"


End file.
